


The Nearness of You

by kamibanani



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: CW: Nazis, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i am ALIVE y'all it has been an adventure these past few months orz, ineffable husbands, some mild innuendo but nothing explicit, tw: injury, with a brief moment in the spotlight for Rose/Greta; Glozier; and Harmony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamibanani/pseuds/kamibanani
Summary: London, 1941: Valise of books in hand and a quiet realisation threatening to spill over into words, Aziraphale takes Crowley up on his offer of a lift back to the bookshop. But on the way back to Soho, he can't help but notice every grimace of pain Crowley makes when he moves his feet. Aziraphale persuades him to go to his place instead, so they can dress his wounds.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 137
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	The Nearness of You

**Author's Note:**

> Henlo my lovelies, long time no see. It has been a wild last few months for me: I moved at the beginning of September 2019, and fully intended to post the next chapter of _Love, Retribution, and Other Inconveniences_ , except work got busy and when it stopped being busy I saw an opportunity to apply for my dream job at a video game company and to my eternal and everlasting shock, _actually got hired_ late October / started in November so that has been my life for the last several months.
> 
> Anyway, before that whirlwind happened, I signed up for the Good Omens Big Bang on tumblr. Please enjoy my humble contributions to this amazing event.
> 
>  **Art:** Blithefool | [tumblr](https://mysmuttyscribbles.tumblr.com/) (NSFW)  
>  **Playlist:** plantcorecrowley | [tumblr](https://plantcorecrowley.tumblr.com/)

[_The Nearness of You_ Playlist](https://plantcorecrowley.tumblr.com/post/190807800086/my-contribution-to-the-good-omens-big-bang-a)

###  **I.**

Between the years 1914 and 1918, humans and died in the most senseless, pointless war thus far in the history of the earth; forty million people dead, roughly three percent of the population. Those who survived were forever changed. When it was over, they dubbed it The War to End All Wars; tears flowed as they welcomed their mangled sons home from the front, buried their dead, and built monuments that promised to serve as a reminder for the needless loss suffered by all.

Twenty-one years later, they started another.

Aziraphale straightened his bowtie and checked his reflection in the mirror. Just because the meeting was meant to be clandestine did not mean his appearance had to suffer.

"Do you have them?"

Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence surveyed him through the glass, her eyebrow arched with a haughty curiosity Aziraphale had grown accustomed to. He nodded and patted the stack of books on his desk, tied with sturdy twine.

"Right here."

She smiled and tilted her head in approval. "Brilliant."

Aziraphale smiled back. No one from the head office had instructed him to ingratiate himself to the Allied forces, but it seemed like the obvious thing to do.

He had stood by helplessly during the Great War, as humanity created tanks and artillery shells and mustard gas to make the process of dying as horrific and drawn out as possible. He had posed as a field medic, then; he couldn't very well stay at the bookshop when he was (for all anyone was concerned) of an age where the fighting fit made their way to the front. 

Whilst in the trenches, he miracled as many as he dared. Gabriel seemed a little too busy to tell him off about 'frivolous' miracles—or maybe he didn't view them as frivolous.

He heard about the Battle of the Somme—the bloodiest battle in history thus far, and by far the most the most pointless in an already pointless war—and wept shamelessly into the shoulder of one of his comrades.

The Aziraphale in the mirror looked back at him with sad blue eyes. He blinked; once, twice, once more, until the tears dried. He patted his cheeks firmly and set his jaw; this was no time for malaise over the past. It was time for an important and—dare he say—valiant caper.

A shadow flitted on the edge of his vision. Startled, Aziraphale spun around. Was that…? It couldn't be! He tried to tamp down the hope that rose in his chest as his eyes scanned the darkness. This was, after all, the sort of mischief that _he_ would get up to. It was wiley, mischievous, and courting danger.

"Mr. Fell?"

Captain Montgomery's lyrical voice interrupted his thoughts as she looked at him curiously, a meticulously groomed eyebrow arched nearly up to her hairline.

Aziraphale schooled his face into neutrality. Of course, there was no one else in the bookshop; no furrowed brow or hurt yellow eyes, peering at him through the shelves from behind dark glasses.

That look had haunted him for the last hundred years; Aziraphale had seen neither hide nor hair of that basta—

"You look as if you have seen a ghost."

Montgomery moved closer, hand stretched out as if to comfort him.

Aziraphale took a step back and plastered a wide, toothy smile onto his face.

"No, no ghost," he replied, trying for chipper but falling somewhere in the vicinity of awkward. "Just thought I saw something in the shadows. Must be my nerves."

The captain hummed, perhaps in disbelief, but dropped the subject and gestured to the doors.

"I hope your nerves will be settled by the time we arrive at the rendezvous point."

"Of course," he said hastily.

The captain arched her eyebrow impossibly higher.

Perhaps _too_ hastily.

With one last check of his reflection, Aziraphale grabbed the books off his desk and followed Rose to her car. He was determined to do something bigger, this time, to help the side of good. The Nazis could not be allowed to continue their genocide, this… this... _ethnic cleansing_ attempting to masquerade as the natural order.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

Aziraphale folded himself into Rose's car; unable to sit still, he tapped his fingers nervously against his knee as Rose carefully made her way to the rendezvous point. 

"Who are Harmony and Glozier, exactly?"

Rose looked at him out of the corner of her eye momentarily before turning her attention back onto the road. There was something odd in the way she didn't answer right away, but again, Aziraphale chalked it up to his nerves.

"They are high ranking Nazi officials, close to the Führer. They have his ear, and being able to apprehend them would be a blow for Hitler's morale and a boost to the Allies. They are some of the handful that know Hitler seeks to win this war at all costs, even turning to the supernatural in order to route our efforts."

Aziraphale nodded; he'd heard this all before, but somehow it seemed important to fill the car with something other than silence and the faint echoes of bombs in the distance.

"How did you manage to find them?"

He vividly remembered how Rose had approached him, apropos of nothing, in the bookshop. She had introduced herself in an undertone, presenting very official-looking papers from the British government and said she had heard he was the man to help in the procurement of strange and rare, even fabled books. Locked in the shop's back room, she told him in whispers of two Nazi agents searching for books of prophecy for Hitler, and how it would be in the service of Her Majesty if Aziraphale would be so obliging to play along.

Aziraphale wasn't really much to be swayed by patriotism, but he knew that helping any force keen on stopping the Nazis would be part of the greater good and had readily agreed.

Not long after, Glozier and Harmony had paid him a visit.

"That is classified information," Rose replied.

Aziraphale thought her tone sounded a little clipped, but who could blame her? If this went well, they would have captured two agents crucial to the Nazi movement.

Finally, they arrived at their destination; Rose stopped the car a short distance away from the church, then turned to Aziraphale, her expression grave.

"You go first," she said, reiterating the plan for the upteenth time. "And keep them talking long enough for my people to arrive."

Aziraphale knew the plan by heart, but nodded anyway as he felt adrenaline build. Rose continued.

"Once they arrive, then I will come in. My people will follow, and we will round up these Nazi bastards for good."

"Righty-ho!"

The walk down the centre aisle was the longest walk he'd ever taken in his existence. He strode in, head held high, the stack of prophetic books swinging gently as he approached the two men waiting by the altar. They looked like any other men, except for the fact that they were Nazis.

"Mr. Glozier? Mr. Harmony?"

One of them looked up at him, a silky smile on his face as he spoke impeccable English in lightly accented tones.

"Mr. Fell. You are late, but not to worry."

The other one narrowed his eyes as he studied Aziraphale's appearance.

"You have the books for the Führer?"

"I do, yes. Books of Prophecy." 

Aziraphale set the package down and rattled the authors by rote as Harmony and Glozier inspected them carefully. They were most disappointed, however, at the conspicuous absence of one prophet.

He tilted his head in a way that could be considered an apology. " _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch._ No luck. I'm afraid that's the Holy Grail of prophetic books."

Neither Glozier nor Harmony looked particularly convinced that the book didn't exist, though they did not press the subject after he shared the single prophecy the publisher had recorded: _Do not buy Betamacks_. For all the good that did any of them.

He shouldn't have been surprised when they pulled a gun on him; he was fully prepared for them to be double-crossers. They were Nazis, after all. Still, he flinched just a little as the barrel pointed his way. He had no desire to be discorporated, or to fill in the subsequent paperwork.

Just then, he heard the gentle tip-tap of high-heeled shoes against the stone floor. A wide grin spread across his face as the sound reverberated through the church like angel song (of which he judged himself to be a preeminent expert, all things considered). Gleefully, he launched into his much-rehearsed victory monologue, puffing out his chest as Rose stood by his side, her gun trained on Harmony and Glozier with a steady hand.

That is, until she stepped past him and pointed the gun at him instead.

"You can't kill me! There will be _paperwork!_ " Aziraphale exclaimed, feeling the existential dread that always accompanied the prospect of sitting in his Heavenly office filling in forms.

Not to mention how shirty the Quartermaster would get if he discorporated yet again. He took a step back as Rose—well, Greta—lifted her gun higher, her smile twisted with wickedness.

He could, theoretically, simply miracle himself out of the situation, but that too came with its problems. First of all, Greta, Harmony, and Glozier would be witnesses to it and would likely ask questions. Secondly, Greta already knew where the bookshop was, so he would have to abandon it (his stomach churned at the thought). Third, such a miracle would likely earn him another sternly worded letter from the head office about _frivolous miracles_.

Aziraphale had nearly managed to resign himself to the mountain of paperwork that awaited him after his impending discorporation, when a familiar voice rang out, one that he hadn't heard for nearly eighty years.

"OW! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow-ow-ow! Ow!"

His heart skipped a beat as he spun around, his astonishment plain on his face as his jaw dropped.

"Sorry! Ow! Consecrated ground!" Crowley did a little hop as he tried to find a way to move forward with the least amount of pain, grimacing/grinning up at Aziraphale as if nothing had happened between them. "It's like being at the beach in bare feet."

There were a million things Aziraphale wanted to say, and they all simultaneously raced from his mind and made a mad dash for his mouth. He meant to say something eloquent. Or witty. Perhaps even inspired. Something, at the very least, that encompassed even a fraction of how he felt at the sight of the stylish silhouette Crowley cut, backlit by the moon filtering through the church's stained glass windows.

Instead, what came out was:

"What are you doing here?"

Crowley looked at Aziraphale through his dark glasses, yellow eyes luminous in the dim light.

"Stopping you getting into trouble. Ow!"

Aziraphale frowned.

"I should have known. Of course. These people are working for _you_."

"No!" Crowley looked aghast as he hopped uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "They're a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies running about London, blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn't want to see you embarrassed."

"The mysterious Anthony J. Crowley," Glozier sneered, looking rather annoyed at the interruption. "Your fame precedes you."

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley and lifted his eyebrows. "Anthony?"

"You don't like it?"

Glozier glared at the two of them, unaccustomed to being ignored—especially by two people whose lives he held in his hands. Harmony and Greta exchanged a puzzled look. This hadn't been part of the plan.

"No, I didn't say that," Aziraphale replied thoughtfully. "I'll get used to it."

Greta shifted her arm, pointing the gun at Crowley instead. She spoke, but neither he nor Aziraphale paid her any mind.

"What does the J stand for?"

"It's just a J, really." Crowley shrugged.

He grabbed hold of a pew for support as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, but then a baptismal font caught his eye. He took a lively step back, eyes wide.

"Look at that. A whole font-full of holy water."

Aziraphale barely glanced at the baptismal font before turning his attention back to Crowley, who was still staring at it as if mesmerised.

"It doesn't even have _guards_."

It suddenly dawned on Aziraphale that Crowley might try and get holy water for himself right then and there. But before he could move, an exasperated voice behind them broke the spell.

"Enough babbling!" Glozier shouted, motioning to his accomplices. His patience had worn out entirely; how _dare_ they carry on as if he were unimportant, a mere fly in the ointment? "Kill them both!"

Crowley held up his hands, stopping the trio of Nazis in their tracks. Bizarrely, they complied—perhaps supernaturally compelled—and frowned as Crowley explained that a German bomber would veer from its course to the East End and instead release a bomb right on top of the church. Glozier sputtered and scoffed, but Crowley only had eyes for Aziraphale.

"It would take a _real miracle_ for my friend and I to survive it."

"A real miracle?" Aziraphale echoed faintly.

"Yes."

So Aziraphale obliged.

They stood in the wreckage of the church silently, waving the smoke away from their faces. The scent of charred flesh was always unpleasant, though had become more and more commonplace in England since the war began.

Crowley strode over to him, the usual swagger back in his step. Consecrated ground loses its purity when blood is shed in its bounds, after all.

"That was kind of you," Aziraphale said, his chest squeezing oddly. Crowley glowered at him.

"Shut up."

"Well it _was_. No paperwork for a start—the books!" Aziraphale gasped and dragged a hand down his face. Of all the ninny-headed things. "I forgot all the books! They'll have been blown to—"

He stopped as Crowley held out the leather bag Harmony had been holding before he died, only a little worse for the wear after the explosion.

The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of Crowley's mouth as Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around the handle, brushing gently—and unnecessarily—against Crowley's hand.

"Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?"

Aziraphale nodded, at a loss for words. Crowley sauntered off, presumably in the direction of wherever he parked the Bentley, but Aziraphale stayed put. He clutched the bag tightly to his chest as his jaw went slack and he felt heat creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the smouldering ruins around him.

_He was in love._

The realisation hit him like a thunderbolt, travelling from the top of his head to his toes, and rooted him to the spot.

Crowley chose that moment to turn back; he'd noticed rather quickly that Aziraphale hadn't followed.

"Coming?"

"Oh—erm, yes, of course."

Aziraphale hurried along after him, brow furrowed as he thought. In love! It was preposterous, but at the same time, seemed inevitable. When did it happen? He cast his mind back over the millennia, flipping through a mental card catalogue of the Arrangement to pinpoint when. It was difficult; he was an angel, a _being_ of love. He loved everyone, and everything. So, of _course_ he loved Crowley. It couldn't be helped.

But _loving_ and being _in love_ are two different things.

His ears rang with the ghosts of words long past. _You what?_ mingled with _I've never eaten an oyster_ , his footfall sounding like _I know him, he's all right._ The crackling of burning wood sang out _I'll do that one, my treat,_ as stone rumbled and collapsed as they sighed, _You're lucky I was in the area._

Aziraphale kept his eyes on the stone path as they walked, trying to ignore the way Crowley shifted a little closer with every other step. His hips moved with their usual swaying grace, and Aziraphale thought—not for the first time—they could be obscenities of their own.

That was probably why he noticed it: the little hitch in Crowley's step as they approached the Bentley.

"Erm," Aziraphale ducked his head as he slid into the Bentley. "Are your feet all right?"

Crowley shifted into gear and pointed the Bentley in the direction of Soho.

"Never better," he replied with a grin.

But the more they drove, the more it was obvious that was a bald-faced lie. By the time they approached Regent's Park, Crowley hissed and winced every time he pressed his foot to the accelerator or brake. His sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, and Aziraphale could see that the whites of his eyes had become less noticeable, more snakelike than he had seen them since… well, _Eden_.

"Why don't we stop at yours?" He heard himself saying through clenched teeth. Even with injured feet, Crowley drove like a bat out of—well, something that went really fast.

"It's fine—"

"It very much is not. Clearly."

Crowley said nothing and turned onto Regent Street, his lips pressed tightly together to avoid making a sound. Aziraphale shook his head.

"No use pretending. That was consecrated ground."

"Will you drop it?" Crowley managed despite this clenched jaw. "It's not like I went in barefoot."

They passed Seymour Street, and Aziraphale grew impatient.

"Don't make me stop the Bentley."

Crowley raised his eyebrows and grinned despite his obvious pain.

"Is that a _threat_?"

"Do you want to find out?" Aziraphale replied testily.

They approached Oxford Street, and for a moment it seemed as if Crowley would turn and drive on to Soho; he lingered at the intersection long enough for Aziraphale to fidget and look at him, fingers poised for a miracle.

But then he turned the other way into Mayfair, in the direction of his flat.

Aziraphale breathed an audible sigh of relief. The bookshop wasn't too much farther, but he judged from the way Crowley gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white that a few minutes saved would be a relief.

The Bentley rolled to a stop just outside a nondescript-looking building, completely in keeping with its neighbours save for the double-paned windows that hadn't yet quite caught on in local architectural circles. Aziraphale knitted his brows together in surprise. He had known that Crowley lived nearby—had done, since around the time he opened the bookshop in 1800—but hadn't ever actually been over.

Not that it hadn't crossed his mind.

"This is where you live?" he blurted out. He wasn't sure what he had been picturing, but it hadn't been this most un-Crowleyish building. It was too sedate, too traditional somehow.

"You don't like it?"

There was a strange note to Crowley's question, one that had been present when he'd asked about going by _Anthony_. Aziraphale hadn't noticed it at the time, his thoughts preoccupied with Crowley's surprise appearance, but there was no mistaking it this time. _Just say the word_ , it seemed to say, _and I'll change it._

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

"I'll get used to it."

###  **II.**

Getting out of the Bentley was the easy part. Crowley swung his legs out and gingerly tested his weight whilst still seated. He winced, but set his jaw and stood with only the slightest of wobbles. So far so good.

The hard part, it seemed, would be to cross the street and make it up the stairs to his flat. He took a tentative step, balancing most of his weight against the open car door. Involuntarily, a hiss escaped him as he jerked his foot back.

The slam of the other car door told him Aziraphale had exited the car. Crowley didn't want him fussing (because it was annoying, he told himself, and not at all because he didn't like to see Aziraphale so concerned and upset) so he took a deep and completely unnecessary breath and stubbornly took a step.

A single step, and a chorus of blessings fell from his lips and littered the ground as his feet refused to obey orders. In some twist of irony, falling seemed to take longer this time; the road absolutely meandered on its way to hitting his face.

But before he could taste what Blitz-flavoured roads were like, Aziraphale was there. Crowley inhaled the scent of old books and spun sugar as Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him; he studied the ground intently, suddenly fascinated by the number of individual pebbles that made up the ridges of a tyre track at their feet.

"Steady on, that's the ticket," Aziraphale murmured.

He hooked Crowley's arm around both of his shoulders and supported his weight, such as it was. The pain in Crowley's feet lessened; he gingerly took a step forward, then another, and another. Aziraphale whispered soft encouragements in his ear, his lips just close enough to brush over skin.

Crowley shivered, and it had nothing to do with his injuries.

As they approached the building, a young woman peered out from between the dark, heavy curtains that covered the window of the ground floor flat. A sliver of dull, barely-there candlelight shone through and illuminated the path before them. An unnecessary act of kindness—after all, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley needed assistance to see in the dark—but a selfless act all the same. Wartime necessitated drastic measures, and the Air Ministry initiated a blackout with the thought that the absence of man-made lights would hinder the Luftwaffe as they attempted to bomb the country.

They looked up at the young woman and nodded their thanks in unison. She risked her wellbeing, as well as the wellbeing of those in her flat, in order to help see them to safety; in this man-made nightmare, both sides recognised the spirit in which the assistance was given. Public Information Leaflet No. 02[1] said in no uncertain terms that the blackout would be enforced, and neither angel nor demon dared give her any less acknowledgement than she deserved.

The curtain fell the moment they reached the pavement and plunged them into darkness once more.

"I've got it," Crowley said, his voice low.

He started to pull his arm away; the entrance to the building was just a step or two ahead, and once they were inside he'd be able to use the stair railing to make his way up (mostly) of his own power.

But Aziraphale pulled him back and scooped him up into his arms with a strength belied by his portly stature.

"Oi—!"

Crowley's feet dangled in the air helplessly as Aziraphale held fast, his eyes flickering between blue and brown in the moonlight and orange haze of distant fires. The door to the building swung open before them; wordlessly, Aziraphale stepped over the threshold.

He stood in the corridor, Crowley in his arms and clutching the fabric of his frock coat tightly. The entryway door shut behind them with a soft click, but still, Aziraphale didn't move. He just looked at Crowley in that Way he did, as if he saw every little bit of him, every secret desire and shame.

Crowley dipped his head, unable to meet his gaze.

The movement seemed to bring Aziraphale back to the present and he began the journey up to the second floor, taking care to move quickly without jostling Crowley's feet against the bannister.

Eyes still lowered, Crowley snapped his fingers and the door to his flat opened. There was a soft noise and suddenly he found himself sinking, feet pointed almost to the sky, into an overstuffed tartan sofa. It looked incongruous to the rest of his apartment decor—a sleek, minimalist look with concrete walls and slate-grey flooring that looked like a vision from a future-set pulp fiction novel. Like the flat below, Crowley's windows were covered by heavy curtains in compliance with wartime statute.

Aziraphale, arms relieved of their charge, looked around with satisfaction at the decidedly much more Crowley-eseque décor.

"Much better," he declared.

"Tartan, though?"

Crowley, propped up on his elbows, picked at the fabric with a look of disdain. Aziraphale frowned and crossed his arms, head tilted to one side as he pouted. It was, already, an old argument.

"Tartan is _stylish_."

"Maybe in the eighteen hundreds," Crowley retorted for the umpteenth with a dismissive wave of his hand, "after the ban was lifted, but before it became a tourist souvenir."

"It's still stylish," Aziraphale replied stubbornly, his lips forming a little _moue_ of distaste.

He adjusted his bowtie for emphasis; he had started wearing tartan in the eighteen hundreds, as a necktie. Crowley rolled his eyes as if the gesture proved his point.

"Is not."

"Is _so_."

Crowley grinned and laughed, but the laugh turned into a hiss of pain as he swung his legs off the sofa and touched his feet to the ground. Immediately, Aziraphale dropped to his knees next to him and gathered Crowley's tattered feet into his hands.

"What did we learn?" he asked, with the air of one schooling an errant child.

"Ngk."

"Eloquently put."

Crowley's shoes were—perhaps unsurprisingly—made of snakeskin. Aziraphale treated them gently; after all, the shoes themselves had nothing wrong with them. Removing Crowley's socks was a much less straightforward task: the bottoms of the fabric were charred and stiff, and stuck to the soles of his feet. Aziraphale's first thought was to miracle the socks away, but then thought better of it.

Being of the same stock, both angels and demons can perform miracles, limited only by their imaginations (a shame for demons, really, seeing how—barring one notable exception—they by and large don't have imaginations).

Heaven in particular has a long list of rules and regulations governing the use of angelic power and keeps track of the potency of the miracles performed by its agents. Aziraphale, for instance, had at least one official reprimand from the head office for too many frivolous miracles. The bigger—or more frequent—the miracle, the more likely Heaven will notice.

And so, Aziraphale found himself in a corner. No one, as far as he knew, had performed a miracle on the vessel of a demon that had been burned by consecrated ground. Humans, in their infinite (or was that finite?) wisdom, had created the rituals to invoke the name of the Almighty as protection against Hell's legions. It was holy in the way nothing else was, Her power thrumming through every milimetre of blessed space.

His imagination faltered. Could he perform a miracle so big as to combat the powers of the Lord Herself? Dare he gamble against Heaven, and subsequently Hell, finding out about the Arrangement? Was Crowley's destruction an acceptable potential price for the easy solution?

Aziraphale bit his lip as miracled up a basin of warm water and gently submerged Crowley's feet. Above him, Crowley inhaled sharply as the water hit his skin. After the fabric was soaked through, Aziraphale gingerly peeled the sock away. Crowley's breath turned into a whimper when Aziraphale came across the first blister.

"I'm so sorry," Aziraphale whispered, and felt tears sting his eyes. His soft apologies turned into a hum as Crowley jerked his leg and writhed to get away from the pain and Aziraphale gripped his ankle firmly. His heart broke with every cry and spasm, and he wished he could have just miracled the pain away.

But it wasn't worth the risk.

Aziraphale reached for his other leg but Crowley jerked away again, a soft _no_ on his lips as his eyes looked at him pleadingly. Aziraphale's face crumpled.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," he repeated, even as he gripped Crowley's other ankle. "I'm so sorry."

Crowley keened in pain and bit the back of his hand to muffle the sound. Aziraphale brushed away the tears with his upper arm as he worked. _I'm sorry, I know, deep breaths, there's a good chap_ became his mantra as if the repetition would somehow make it less of an ordeal; the words ran together and turned into an almost indecipherable, soothing hum as Crowley shook with exhaustion and pain.

Then both feet were freed, the socks discarded in a pile somewhere behind Aziraphale. He sent them somewhere, not particularly caring where they wound up as long as they were nowhere remotely in the vicinity of the United Kingdom.

Crowley slumped down on the sofa and allowed the overstuffed cushions to claim him just a little more. The fabric, somehow, smelled like Aziraphale: sweet and comforting and familiar.

His breath came in shallow and ragged as he held his blistered and burned feet carefully above the floor. Crowley gritted his teeth as he balanced, somehow serpentine as he caught his lower lip.

Aziraphale turned his head and surreptitiously wiped his eyes on a handkerchief as he miracled a new bowl of warm water, a few cloths, some myrrh extract, honey, and bandages into existence. Slowly, tenderly, he dipped a cloth into the water and wrung it out with a gentle squeeze; he cradled Crowley's feet in his lap, and gently wiped away the soot and dried blood. Crowley stayed silent, and Aziraphale noticed that the whites of his eyes had now completely disappeared.

"There's a fellow," he murmured as he gently patted at a particularly bad burn. "You're doing so well."

The night ticked on, though Aziraphale no longer heard the sounds of the bombing outside. With Crowley silent, there was nothing to distract him from how _close_ they were. He could feel the warmth of Crowley's skin, the steady throb of his pulse through his ankle as he washed his feet. Aziraphale stifled the urge to linger.

Once he patted them dry, Aziraphale reached for the myrrh and honey.

Beyond perfume, myrrh was once used for medicinal purposes. They didn't have the language for it back then, attributing its antiseptic properties to the spiritual significance it had in many rituals. Aziraphale used it now, hoping that both the spiritual significance and the scientific reasoning would help a demon's wounds heal. He poured a bit of myrrh oil onto a clean cloth and dabbed at Crowley's feet, working systematically from largest injuries to smallest.

Crowley sat silently and only narrowed his eyes a little whenever the oil made contact with his skin. It stung like a… thing that stings, though not nearly as much as what came before.

With the myrrh oil applied to his satisfaction, Aziraphale grabbed the honey. In ancient Egypt, he had learned of many uses for honey: as part of ritual ceremony, as a sweetener in food, as a preservative, and even as a treatment for rashes and burns. He smoothed a thin layer of it on the worst burn and was gratified to hear a sigh of relief above him.

Suddenly the flat shuddered and shook as the aftershock of a distant bomb reached them. The blackout curtains fluttered open and for a moment Crowley sat up straighter.

Aziraphale was **_radiant_**.

Crowley stared in awe as the hazy orange light from a distant fire blurred Aziraphale's edges and made him glow. His breath caught in his throat as Aziraphale turned and managed to align his head with the moon just _so_ , and it turned into a pale silver halo. Through the window, Crowley could see the flames from the fire feather out. A pang clutched at him as the image of Aziraphale the Principality, as a voice in the Celestial Choir took shape; he could almost see it, too many limbs and too many eyes and a flurry of wings expanding and filling his flat. The snake inside him stirred, ready to answer—

—then the curtains fell closed and Aziraphale was Aziraphale, who looked up at him with a tender smile, a wrinkled brow, and eyes filled with concern.

"Is something the matter?"

Crowley shook his head, unable to take his eyes off of him.

"No," he replied hoarsely. "The shockwave, is all."

###  **III.**

Something about the way Crowley was looking at him was discomfiting. Aziraphale coughed delicately and, with difficulty, pulled his gaze away. 

His hands trembled. The honey and myrrh seemingly moved with a mind of their own, and Aziraphale frowned at the sight of the haphazardly-placed, salve-soaked bandage slipping down Crowley's ankle. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, eyes narrowed as he tried again. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped fresh bandages around Crowley's injured feet, eyebrows knitting together as he concentrated.

Heat crept into the tips of his ears; he felt, rather than saw, Crowley's gaze still focused on him. Had Crowley always looked at him like this? Or was he imagining it now that he realised he loved him? Dash it all, this was too much to think about just now. Aziraphale tucked his head down, pouring every ounce of his strength into wrapping the bandage firmly but gently against Crowley's burns.

As he tucked the final pin into place, the feeling in his chest began to expand, weighing on him like … like… like some really… really heavy thing.

_Love._

His hands lingered longer than was absolutely necessary. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to meet Crowley's eyes anymore. The usual intensity of that yellow stare seemed amplified now, and in truth, Aziraphale was a little afraid to see what might be reflected in his own eyes.

Aziraphale could barely hear the bombs over the staccato beat in his chest as Crowley's words echoed in his ears.

_A little demonic miracle of my own._

He caught his lower lip between his teeth. Crowley loved him back, he was almost certain of it. Now that he knew where to look— _how_ to look—it seemed obvious. The Arrangement. A soft word here. A kind gesture there. A barbed word spoken forcefully, as if trying to convince himself as much as Aziraphale.

Perhaps this is how Adam and Eve had felt, standing before Her in the Garden, aware for the first time that they were naked. Aziraphale had never felt so vulnerable, so bare.

Part of him wanted to speak, but fear gripped him. There was something just too tenuous, too delicate, too fragile… Instead, Aziraphale miracled up more supplies for the future and gathered them into his arms. He stood, ready to amble off and find Crowley's bathroom to put away the bandages and antiseptics.

Crowley's hand shot out, his grip like a vice around Aziraphale's wrist. The supplies tumbled to the ground, bandages unravelling every which way.

Aziraphale stiffened as Crowley leaned forward, covering his eyes with his other hand. He mumbled something to the floor.

"Erm, sorry?"

More mumbling. Crowley's grip tightened as a tremor ran through him, and Aziraphale felt a pang in his chest. With as much gentleness as he could muster, he knelt back down and covered Crowley's hand with his own.

"What is it?"

"...don't."

Crowley's voice was hardly a whisper. Aziraphale frowned and leaned in closer, his head tilted to one side.

"Don't?" he echoed.

To his surprise, a dull flush crept up Crowley's neck and into his cheeks.

"St—stay… with me…"

It was Aziraphale's turn to flush, but Crowley—whose eyes were still covered with his other hand—thankfully didn't notice. Aziraphale nodded, his voice soft.

"Of course, dear boy." 

Not that he had planned on leaving.

They sat there for a time, the rumble of not-so-distant bombing the only sound that cut through the silence that stretched comfortably between them. Crowley let go of his wrist (Aziraphale's skin felt oddly bare in its absence), clenching and unclenching the tartan fabric of the sofa instead.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. It was hardly the appropriate time to do so, with Crowley in such agonising pain and humans all around them losing their lives. He fidgeted, finding that his assigned vessel suddenly felt entirely too small. Anxiety rippled under his skin, constricting his chest; if he had needed to breathe, he might have found it impossible.

Crowley was simultaneously too close and yet not close enough.

「 _It's not the pale moon that excites me..._ 」

A man's voice, warbling gently from a record player, wafted up from downstairs through the shared ventilation. It was faint and distant, as if the record player had been muffled by a pile of pillows.

Absently, Aziraphale wondered if it was within wartime policy to allow the playing music after nightfall, but then realised there would be no way to hear the music from a personal record player from the altitude of a German bomber.

He smiled to himself, imagining the look on Crowley's face had he asked the question aloud.

「 _That thrills and delights me..._ 」

He glanced over and his chest ached peculiarly as the song filled the flat, somehow drowning out the sounds of war. Ray Eberle's rich vocals hit a little too close to home, and the heart that powered Aziraphale's corporeal form skipped a beat.

「 _Oh no, it's just the nearness of you._ 」

He stiffened as Crowley let out a small whimper of pain and leaned into him. Aziraphale could feel Crowley's warmth through his frock coat, and his belly twisted something like fire. Yearning filled him, wondrous and oh, _so_ frightening, and he clenched the pleats of his trousers so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The crackling of the record mirrored the cracking of his resolve. Was this what humans felt when they fell in love? Was this the gift that She bestowed upon them, that made them in Her image? Angels _felt_ love, of course, but falling _in_ love seemed like an entirely different kettle of fish.

「 _It isn't your sweet conversation..._ 」

Whether intentionally or out of exhaustion, Crowley sank down until his head rested in Aziraphale's lap. His legs were propped up on the arm rest, feet dangling over the edge; his eyes were closed, hat askew and tilted slightly over his forehead. Aziraphale hesitated, then gently removed the hat; he looked down at Crowley and felt the weight of his realisation, wrapping around his heart like a sn… well…

Aziraphale bit his lip, worrying the flesh between his teeth as he struggled to stay still. Crowley looked so sweet, so… uncharacteristically unguarded.

「 _That brings this sensation..._ 」

Giving in to a base impulse, Aziraphale ran his fingers through that shock of red hair—hesitant at first, but then settling into an easy rhythm when Crowley rumbled with contentment.

Aziraphale could feel a small, indulgent smile tug at the corners of his lips, relishing the silkiness of the fine hair threading between his fingers. He marvelled—not for the first time, if he were being honest with himself—how angelic Crowley always managed to look despite...well, everything.

 _Temptation incarnate,_ Aziraphale thought suddenly, and was surprised it had taken him several millennia to arrive at the conclusion. Did the Almighty know, six thousand years ago, that it would come to this? That the Tempter of the Garden would one day tempt its Keeper, apple-red hair beckoning to him as the Forbidden Fruit once beckoned to the first two?

Eventually, Crowley's breathing slowed as he relaxed under Aziraphale's tender ministrations. Neither of them needed sleep, not in the mortal sense. This, however, was Crowley's personal concession to living on Earth. Aziraphale was not at all surprised he chose to retreat from consciousness at the first relief from the pain in his feet.

Gently, new love threatening to spill out of him like light through a sieve, he continued to stroke Crowley's hair. He was afraid, so very afraid, and yet...

Carefully, warily, apprehensively, Aziraphale leaned forward; the moment felt fragile, thin like a frayed thread that could snap at any moment. Slowly, he dipped his head; Crowley shifted, eyelids fluttering, and Aziraphale inhaled sharply.

He smelled, perhaps unsurprisingly, like ash and metal. There was another scent too, something all at once sweet and hot and woody and bitter; was that...cinnamon?

Aziraphale's mouth watered. How _very_ Crowley-ish.

Crowley shifted again, but soon lapsed into deep, even breaths; Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. He brushed aside a stray lock of hair from Crowley's forehead, and let his thumb trace a featherlight path across his skin.

Aziraphale swallowed, leaning forward as if being tugged down by the collar by an unseen force. A rushing sound filled his ears as he plucked up his nerve, with only the smallest of sighs, brushed his lips against Crowley's hair.

「 _Oh no, it's just the nearness of you_ 」

Crowley's eyes flew open.

###  **IV.**

There had only been two instances where time _actually_ stood still, thus far in the history of everything (at least, as long as time had been a concept).

The first was circa 2200 B.C., give or take a few; the night the Epic of Gilgamesh was completed. Enheduanna had been struck with what could almost be a feverish drive as she wrote line after line of the now-ancient text, a certain watchful blue-eyed angel hungrily reading the lines as they flowed from stylus to tablet.

The second was in the late 1780s, in France. Recent history, relatively speaking, and resulted in the unfortunate demise of a middle-aged man who claimed vehemently that he was, in fact, the executioner and not the execute-ee—at least, until Madame la Guillotine cut him off. No one was able to find a poncy Englishman like he claimed, and the clothes he described the gentleman in were the exact same as the ones he wore.

Now Crowley stared up at him, eyes bright and unblinking, for so long that Aziraphale forced himself to turn his head and study the baseboard under the window. Flashes of orange light flickered in the small sliver left by the blackout curtains; he swallowed as he realised time hadn't stood still at all.

Aziraphale started to move, to excuse himself off the couch, when Crowley reached up and cupped his cheek.

"Don't go."

Aziraphale stiffened as Crowley slowly sat up, his thumb caressing Aziraphale's cheek. Oh, this was bad. Dangerous. The space between them was getting smaller, the point of no return barrelling towards them like a locomotive. The song and the explosions faded into the distance as Aziraphale watched Crowley's face move closer and closer to his.

It was like Aziraphale had been transported into a Jane Austen novel. He knew— _knew!_ —that Crowley was about to kiss him, as suddenly as the way any regency heroine Knew that the man they had rebuffed time and time again held the dearest of places in their heart.

After all, was that not what he had done? Was this not the culmination of the past several millennia, the result of Crowley offering him his heart at every opportunity, and him being as blissfully unaware as Emma was of Mister Knightly? He had thrown the slip of paper with the words _Holy Water_ away so forcefully, telling himself and Crowley that he wouldn't be party to Crowley's suicide. But wasn't it much simpler? Wasn't it just he could not imagine a world wherein Crowley was not at his side? 

He didn't need to breathe, but Aziraphale heard his breath coming in small, shallow gasps anyway. Crowley slipped his other arm behind Aziraphale's back, contorting in the way only a gangly snake unused to joints and bones could do, and pulled him closer.

Suddenly, he realised that the bombing had stopped, plunging them into a thick, ringing silence. Aziraphale thought he heard his breath echo in the chic, unadorned room, then realised that it was _Crowley_ , breathing just as heavily as he was.

The concrete flat, only moments ago cool and spacious, suddenly felt hot and overcrowded. The hairs on Aziraphale's arms stood on end as a prickling sensation washed over him; like an itch, but under his skin. Crowley was close enough that he could see each individual eyelash.

His mouth went dry, which was a curious sensation, and desperately wished for a glass of water. Perhaps he could have miracled one, but his body seemed to be quite disinterested in any command he issued no matter how sternly he tried to issue it.

Crowley's hand moved from his cheek to cradling the back of his neck, and Aziraphale found himself placing his hands on Crowley's chest. Something hot twisted and writhed in his stomach as a battle between reason and desire raged inside his mind; it would be so easy to give in, to accept and celebrate what he had finally realised after so long. After all, who would see them inside Crowley's flat but God Herself?

And _She_ hadn't said a word to anyone for literally ages.

How long they stayed like this, Aziraphale didn't know. Perhaps time stood still, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from Crowley to check the baseboard again.

Crowley was so close now, only a hair's breadth between them.

He was a demon. A _demon_. Crowley had fallen, punished by God in the most absolute of ways: barred from Her presence for eternity. The Great War was coming, and when it whatever blissful space they had carved for themselves amongst the humans would disappear. An angel and a demon could never be anything more than adversaries; they couldn't even be seen in each other's company, and if Heaven _or_ Hell even got so much as an inkling that there was anything more between them than the usual bureaucratically defined animosity, both sides would end their assignments in a snap.

_Or worse._

Aziraphale knew he couldn't. He _shouldn't_. It'd eternally and permanently damn them both.

Oh, but God forgive him, because he _wanted_ to. He wanted to close that gap between them and relish the taste of Crowley on his lips like the most delectable of sweets. He wanted to press Crowley back against the sofa and devour him, lingering slowly over every morsel like a Roman emperor over an exquisite feast. A vision flashed in his head of the two of them, divested of their human attire and wrapped around each other so completely that one couldn't tell where angel ended and demon began.

Aziraphale trembled with the strength of his desire, eyes wide as he looked at Crowley, who stared back as if he knew every unspeakable image flitting through his mind's eye.

Fear gripped at Aziraphale as his body trembled with the strength of his desire. He had never wanted anything more, not in the last six thousand years of being stationed on the creation the Almighty called Earth. It wasn't _right_ to feel this way. He was an angel, and while he could justify to himself his frequent indulgences in books and food were all part of the human experience, he could hardly justify to himself engaging in… in… _fraternisation_ with The Enemy as the same.

 _Why not?_ asked a little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Crowley. _Humans do this sort of thing all the time. Affirmation of life, and all._

The real Crowley licked his lips, and Aziraphale couldn't look away.

"Aziraphale."

He could feel Crowley's breath on his lips. Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Warily, Aziraphale opened one eye. He found Crowley studying him with an unreadable expression on his face. It was a far cry from how transparent Crowley had been just moments ago, when he looked like he was ready to have his way with Aziraphale right then and there.

Finally, Crowley smiled—a little sadly, Aziraphale thought—and shook his head. He leaned closer; Aziraphale braced himself, breath held in anticipation, but instead of kissing him Crowley simply nuzzled his cheek against his.

Then Crowley sank back down and wrapped both arms around Aziraphale's waist. He buried his face into Aziraphale's waistcoat then (carefully, so as not to disturb his bandages) drew in his knees and coiled around Aziraphale.

Feeling surprised and—much to his consternation—mildly disappointed, Aziraphale resumed stroking Crowley's hair. There was something to be said about how well Crowley understood him; he smiled fondly at the (perhaps) sleeping demon in his lap. He wasn't ready, but at least now Crowley knew that he was no longer oblivious to the feelings between them.

Perhaps, one day, God would forgive the others. Perhaps, one day, they would be on the same side.

But not now. Not yet.

For now, it was enough to just be near him.

「 _Oh no, it's just the nearness of you._ 」

**Author's Note:**

> 1 _Public Information Leaflet No. 2_ was a WWII wartime decree requiring citizens in Britain to mask their windows to prevent any light from escaping, in order to make targeting cities more difficult in the absence of lights.
> 
> * * *
> 
> As always, love to my beta readers [akfedeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akfedeau/) and [lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lywinis). If you enjoy my stuff, please be sure to check out their stories!


End file.
